


The Second Carriage

by captainskellington



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, cute boys are dangerous, there is a train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 06:11:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3477434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a really cute guy on Grantaire's train.<br/>A book turns up with a couple of curiously familiar characters.</p><p>The story of an artist, an author, some nice coincidences, and a train.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Second Carriage

The first time Grantaire saw him was on a Monday.

It wasn't looking to be a very good day. He'd had to sprint in the rain to make his train, and the first carriage - the one he usually collapsed in - had had a wailing child in it. So naturally, he headed into the next carriage, accidentally leaving a trail of water droplets as he went.

It was as he was making his way through the joint between the two carriages that he discovered one of two things.

One, he apparently had a hole in his shoe, because his foot was drenched.

Then as he lifted his leg to inspect the damage, he discovered that there was a very sudden jolt in the tracks. So sudden, in fact, that he lurched forward and very nearly went flying, would have done if he hadn't managed to grab hold of a headrest as he tumbled.

"Nice catch," came an amused voice from the seat. Grantaire grinned apologetically as he straightened, getting a look at the guy who'd managed to duck out of the way just in time to avoid a knock to the head.

The guy was beautiful: in his early twenties like Grantaire, with an artfully messy torrent of curly blonde hair falling to well past his shoulders, and a smattering of charming freckles across his face.

"Nice dodge," Grantaire responded, taking a seat a respectful distance across the aisle from the guy so that he wouldn't soak him as well as nearly beheading him in the same day.   
He just laughed and went back to his book.

Grantaire removed his jacket in the hopes it would dry in the somewhat stifling heat of the train, and tugged his sketchbook out of his rucksack. Thankfully he'd had the foresight to wrap it in a plastic bag so it wouldn't get wet, so everything was in one piece.

One of the good things about the nearly hour-long commute into college was that he could finish any work he'd forgotten or been too busy to complete the previous day.

He flipped it open to the most recent page, a graphite portrait of the elderly lady who was their current life model in class. Her name was Felicity and she was an absolute delight, Grantaire found.

It took him the best part of half an hour to finish the sketch, book balanced on one knee and reference photo pulled up on his phone in the other. Then bored, he flipped to another page at random and looked around for inspiration.

No, not the old man who'd been glaring at him every time his pencil made an audible scratch, not the excitable (but thankfully quiet) young kid who moved faster than was probably possible to catch on camera, or their amused yet harassed looking mother... His eyes fell on the pretty blonde boy.

He had his head inclined over a notebook now, book discarded, and was scribbling feverishly on the page. His hair was tucked behind one ear, his brow furrowed in concentration, one leg kicking absentmindedly over the other.

Grantaire's pencil moved to the page without his permission.

He whiled away the rest of his time laying down line after line of the guy's profile, hastily crosshatching his shirt with its rolled up sleeves, glaring at his hair in dismay, carefully etching in his thoughtful expression - freckles and all -

And nearly missed his stop.

He swore under his breath, snatched up his jacket and bag, and legged it.

He didn't notice a pair of keen eyes following his movements through a veil of blonde curls, or the amused smile that accompanied them.

***

The next day, Grantaire actually made it to his train without having to rush, and as such was inordinately pleased with himself.

He boarded his train at his usual carriage, which was thankfully minus one bawling infant today, and yet…

He continued into the next carriage.

And there he was again. He made an exaggerated effort to duck out of the way when he spotted Grantaire, a playful smile playing at his lips.

"Very funny," Grantaire rolled his eyes, taking the same seat as before. He snuck a glance at the guy moments later to find him in almost the exact same position as the previous day, if a little more turned towards Grantaire, leaning a little closer to his page.

Grantaire took out his sketchbook again. His drawing was lacking something, after all. And any practice was good practice.

It didn't take long for him to do as much as he could on the drawing, and then he decided not to push his luck and start another of him. His (somewhat creepy, as his friends had informed him) analytical staring had gone unnoticed thus far, and he didn't really want to spook the guy.

He instead turned and drew an abandoned can of Diet Coke on the table to his right, his own distorted reflection included.

Because he wasn't anywhere near as deeply enthralled in his subject matter this time, he had everything packed away and had stood up in plenty of time to make his stop today.

(Not that he was trying to look somewhat collected in front of anybody in particular, or anything, where did you get that impression?)

"Hey," came a voice at his shoulder just as the train began to slow. He turned. "You forgot this," the beautiful guy was very tall and very nicely built, Grantaire noted as he clocked the jacket in his hand.

 _His_ jacket.

"Ah," Grantaire said, taking it from him. "Thanks." He tried very hard to refrain from blushing. So hard, in fact, that he forgot to brace himself for the jolt of the train stopping, and ended up nearly tumbling to the floor of the train for the second time in as many days.

It was almost worth it for the musical laughter that followed him as he disembarked.

***

That was how it continued, week on week for months. Grantaire would get on his train and move to that second carriage, perhaps exchange a word or two with his unwitting companion, sit down and draw.

Often, the guy would be the subject of his sketches.

It wasn't just that he was pretty, it was that he saw him so often that he had become familiar, and something about his face just lent itself to Grantaire's pencil. He even found himself tracing those same lines onto unrelated work in class; sketches that were supposed to be faceless gained a sharp gaze and a mop of unruly hair, his coursework took on the warm colours of his skintone and wardrobe.

Grantaire even did something of a cross-section of the train, complete with the two of them in what had become their "usual" seats.

Still, they barely spoke.

But Grantaire felt there was a connection there, somewhere.

 

***

It was a Tuesday in the depths of winter when Grantaire had one of his "Days", as his friends referred to them.

In past years, he would have just stayed home and fallen deeper and deeper into a slump of unhappiness on a Day, but he'd made a promise to himself. He was going to keep going no matter what. He was going to stick at school and push through the worst of the Days. He was going to win.

That didn't necessarily mean he was going to be the best of company on those Days, though.

He stumbled onto his train in a daze, earphones firmly in, wrapped up tight in his coat and scarf. He hadn't been sleeping well, either, which didn't exactly help matters.

Still, though, he slouched through to the second carriage and took his usual seat, screwing his eyes shut and concentrating on nothing but breathing evenly. There was no point trying to get any excess work done when he was feeling like this. He wasn't a fan of his own art at the best of times, and Days brought with them their own special brand of frustration and self-hatred.   
It wasn't worth wasting the paper, to be honest.

About half an hour into the journey, something smacked into his cheekbone. He opened his eyes slowly, muscles ready to twitch into a scowl at whoever had brushed past him and hit him with a wayward bag or jacket sleeve, but to his surprise nobody was moving, and they were nowhere near any stops.

He frowned, looking around him to try and locate the cause of the peculiar feeling. He was beginning to think he'd just imagined it when he lifted his hand to his cheek and something fell from a crease in his sleeve.

He picked up the small package. It was a Starburst, still in its wrapper. A good one as well, one of the red ones. He turned it over on a whim and a smiley face was scribbled on the wrapper in what looked like biro. He huffed a laugh at that, and suddenly knew exactly where it had come from.

He looked across the aisle. The guy was nose deep in his notebook again, kicking his legs, the picture of nonchalance despite the small mountain of sweet wrappers by his elbow.

Grantaire slouched further in his seat and reached out with a foot to nudge the guy's knee. He looked up expectantly. Grantaire lifted the small red square and gave him the best half smile he could muster. He could only imagine how he looked: unshaven, dark circles under his eyes, hair tangled and shoved under a threadbare beanie, clothes most likely in a disheveled state - he hadn't bothered to check.

But still, the grin he received in return was mesmerizing.

Perhaps perseverance was worth it, after all.

***

His friends had been teasing him about having a crush on Train Cutie, as they called him.

He wondered if the teasing would lessen or heighten if he confirmed their suspicions.

He kept his sketchbooks private, at the very least.

And if his mind wandered while he was dreaming…

Well, those were the most private thoughts of all.

 

***

A Wednesday in spring came with a crowded train and the somewhat overwhelming sense that Grantaire was definitely missing something.

He could barely squeeze through the first carriage into the second, and there were no seats to be found anywhere. Halfway down the aisle he stumbled over an outstretched leg and somebody caught him.

"We _have_ to stop meeting like this," the guy said with a smile, his hand holding firm around Grantaire's arm.

"I've yet to actually fall though, so we must be doing something right," Grantaire grimaced as a whole new crowd surged into the already-packed carriage, jostling the two of them closer together. "Alright, I'll bite, why are we playing sardines? What have I forgotten?"

The guy laughed and pushed some stray hair from his face, arm brushing Grantaire's chest as he did. Grantaire made no effort to move. "You forgot about the festival too, huh?"

“Ah,” Grantaire paused to think. "Like, seventeen separate things just started to make sense."

The guy laughed again. After a moment, he stopped trying to juggle his bag and looked to Grantaire. "Hold this for me?" He then proceeded to tie his hair up.

Grantaire tried not to smile; there was something oddly endearing about the action. Probably the fact that he stuck his tongue out as he did so, one of the many concentration tics that Grantaire had seen him do as he worked.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me,” the guy muttered as more people pushed onboard, successfully crushing him to Grantaire’s chest. “Sorry,” he said with an apologetic grin, taking the bag off Grantaire. “And thanks.”

“No problem,” Grantaire mumbled, looking away before he did something that would make the situation any more awkward. Like, oh, mentioning that his hair smelled really good or that he really didn’t mind their current situation even in the slightest.

He huffed a sigh.

Cute boys were dangerous.

***

The journey was over far too soon and not soon enough all at the same time.

To be on the safe side, Grantaire began to push his way to the carriage doors two stops early, foregoing all politeness and etiquette and just elbowing his way through. By the looks of the people’s faces, they understood his plight and merely wished it were their stop as well so they could leave the ridiculously overcrowded train and be free, so he didn’t feel too bad about it.

“Hey, wait,” came that familiar voice again, accompanied by the light press of fingers gently wrapping around his wrist. Grantaire turned back.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“My name’s Enjolras,” he said with a smile. “I’ve been meaning to say for a good few months now, but kept forgetting.”

“Grantaire,” he replied with a lopsided grin. “Forgive me if I utterly butcher your name at some point.”

“It’s expected,” Enjolras replied, his eyes glittering like some goddamn anime character. Honestly, how was that guy real? “Good luck, by the way,” he added, nodding towards the dense throng of people he still had to fight his way through.

“If you never see me again, know I went down fighting,” Grantaire said grimly, with a mocking salute.

Again, his laughter followed him from the train.

 _Enjolras._ He rolled the name around his head as he emerged from the stuffy compartment into the (relatively) fresh air of the train platform.

He smiled to himself.

***

For the remainder of the month the train was just as busy as that first day every time Grantaire stepped onto it. The festival had the entire city heaving, and it was all Grantaire could do not to join in with the complaints of “bloody tourists” that every local he passed seemed to voice.

As such, he barely saw Enjolras, much less managed to speak to him again. They waved at each other and gave a friendly grimace whenever they spotted each other, but that was about it.

The only good thing about the festival was, given that he was a certified Anti-Social Bastard ( _™, Bossuet Lesgles_ ), Grantaire wasn’t inclined to stray from the studio all that much as that would involve putting effort into avoiding people. Because of this, he got a hell of a lot of work done.

One piece he was particularly proud of (and, hell, he’d stopped feeling bad about drawing Enjolras a long time ago...Mostly) was a total fabrication, but it made him feel… Content. It was a decent sized oil painting of a relatively fancy train carriage interior, as realistic as his personal style would allow, and in it were two men; one looking out of the window, one leaning against his shoulder, asleep, the entire thing cast aglow as though the sun was setting through the opposite window.

The carriage was fancier than any Grantaire had ever set foot in, you couldn’t see either of their faces, and they’d only ever met in the morning. But he knew it was them, and that was all that mattered.

And, he’d realised, this was what he wanted. Silly though it might seem, he barely knew the guy; he wanted to be with Enjolras.

So proud was he of this work, he took a photo of it on his phone, slapped a pretentious filter on it and uploaded it to his art blog. Not many people knew about it; only a couple of his friends had the url, so he felt safe uploading most of his sketches there. He had a fair few followers, in the low hundreds, but those who were there seemed to genuinely appreciate his work. And that was what kept Grantaire going, at any rate.

It felt good.

His heart was heavy with wistfulness as he wandered back to the station in the early evening, the sun just beginning to dip behind the buildings of the city. Not in a sad way, mind, but almost a sort of nostalgia, which was silly in itself.

Who missed a relationship they’d never had with a person whose name they’d only learnt a few weeks ago? Silly people.

He arrived just as his train was pulling in, and ducked through the doors at a leisurely pace. He cracked a smile at himself; on top of everything else, the odd contentment he’d poured into the painting had lingered. It was a good place to be in.

He passed into his usual carriage and stopped dead in the middle of the aisle. Not because he’d realised that the compartment was all but empty - this hour was the time he usually went home, as dead as you got at any time of year - but because of one of the few occupants of the carriage.

Enjolras was curled up in a window seat, head resting on the glass and feet tucked beneath him, his chin on his chest. One hand still rested on the table in front of him, fingers on the edge of his notebook, pen long gone, a victim of the rattling train. Something rose in Grantaire’s chest at the sight, a gradual blooming of warmth.

He hesitated, then took the seat diagonally opposite Enjolras, the aisle seat. His fingers itched and he saw no point in resisting the pull of his muse, so he dragged his sketchbook out his bag and lifted the first drawing utensil that brushed against his hand.

For the next forty minutes the charcoal danced across the page, a soothing drag that travelled along those painfully beautiful features; Enjolras’ brow was furrowed even in sleep, his fingers occasionally twitching as if to continue his scribbling through his dreams.

They reached the stop before Grantaire’s all too soon.

He hesitated after packing away his drawing things, then stood, moving to Enjolras’ side. He closed his notebook quietly, resisting the urge to take a peek at what it was he was writing that took up so much of his concentration, and slipped it into Enjolras’ bag, securing it shut carefully and putting it back on the seat.

Noticing it was nearly time for him to disembark, Grantaire leaned forward and gently shook his shoulder.

“Enjolras,” he said softly. The other man woke up with a startled mew, and Grantaire couldn’t help the lovesick grin that crossed his face. Hopefully he would be too sleep muddled to notice it. “Be careful you don’t miss your stop, yeah?”

Enjolras blinked sleepily. “Yeah… Yeah. Have a nice night, Grantaire.”

“You too,” he smiled, and left.

On the platform he turned to look back at the train.

Enjolras lifted a hand in farewell, and Grantaire mimicked the gesture.

He saw him laugh, and then the train was moving and he was gone. Grantaire frowned and looked at his hand.

Covered in charcoal.

Just like the shoulder of Enjolras’ shirt would be now.

Silly, that.

 

***

It was a Thursday when he got the message.

The festival had ended weeks ago - thank god - and Grantaire and Enjolras had gotten their train back the way they liked it; _empty,_ or near enough.

They still didn’t speak much, but Grantaire had taken to sitting opposite Enjolras at his customary table. They would greet each other with a smile or a nod, and he would sketch, and Enjolras would write, and they would sit in companionable silence until Grantaire had to get up and disembark and they would say goodbye again.

Enjolras hadn’t showed up on Grantaire’s train home again, which was a sad loss, in his opinion.

However, his writing had seemed less frenzied as of late, and he himself seemed a lot more peaceful. Relieved, somehow.

It was hard trying to read somebody Grantaire knew almost nothing about.

He was in the studio when it happened, his phone vibrated with an incoming email notification. _“You have (1) new message! cynicalsn1per1832 asked you…”_

He clicked through to read the message, then frowned. Looked at it again. Went onto his blog, scrolled through the latest posts. Blinked multiple times.

The notes on his art had tripled, quadrupled on some of the pieces, a few were even past the hundreds mark. And that message.

> **cynicalsn1per1832 asked you:** OH. THIS. THIS PIECE OF THE TRAIN SCENE. THIS IS THE BEST PPM FANART I’VE EVER SEEN. I’M SO IN LOVE. THANK YOU FOR SHARING.

What the hell?

He messaged the user back straight away.

< **airesandgraces:** PPM?  
> **cynicalsn1per1832:** pro patria mori?? you know, the books??????? you captured jack perfectly, and that train piece… i cant believe you did it so quickly! those scenes were right at the end of the book and its only been out what, a week??????? amazing!

Grantaire went back to his blog and checked the tags on his posts. Sure enough, a fair few of the comments were saying similar things. Even on a few of his oldest sketches of Enjolras there were mentions of this “Jack” character, which was just mindboggling.

He didn’t know who cynicalsn1per1832 was, but their enthusiastic use of question marks sure summed up his current mindspace.

He thanked them quickly anyway, and opened up his reading app. A quick search revealed that the PPM series was a relatively new one, the first book only just over a year old, and the second and most recent had only been released the previous week, just as the blogger had said.

A hasty web search confirmed what he’d been beginning to expect: the books, new though they were, had already begun to gather a dedicated following, hence the “fanart” comments.

Intrigued, he bought the first book and began to read.

Slowly, things began to click into place.

***

It was just as well he’d gotten so far ahead in his work during the festival, because he spent that entire day reading.

The first book was thrilling; the author had an incredible grasp on imagery and the passion in their writing was near-tangible. The story followed the actions of spy named Jacques (codename: Jack Eros. Grantaire only stopped cringing at it when the character himself expressed his disapproval over the tackiness of his “surname”) who essentially travelled the world causing mischief in the hopes of dismantling further mischief.

To Grantaire’s great surprise - and relief - it strayed from the usual spy novel tropes of the agent some smoothtalking romancer who talked every female-identifying local in the vicinity into his bed. Instead, it hinted at something longstanding between Jack and another guy referred to as “the sniper”; an old friend and fellow agent who’d apparently gone rogue - though Jack had his doubts - and implied that Jack’s flirting capabilities were somewhat awkward at best. It was at this point that Grantaire began to believe the author had chosen the surname to be ironic.

He liked this guy.

The first book ended with Jack nearly getting himself killed trying to take down a human trafficking ring in the USA, only to hear some sort of disturbance and duck just in time to be rescued by a well placed bullet at the very last second by some unseen saviour.

Two lines in particular in the last chapter stuck out to Grantaire.

_“Nice catch,” I manage to say, voice still hoarse, heart pounding in my chest. Because it’s him, it has to be, who else could it be?_

_“Nice dodge,” comes the amused reply, confirming everything I’ve hoped and dreaded._

And that’s when it clicked.

He hastily swiped back to the description of Jack’s character design.

“Son of a…”

The author had been struggling with the ending to the book, a few articles had said.

The book that had been completed mere weeks after Grantaire had changed his train routine; the book whose last lines of dialogue just so happened to be the first lines of dialogue between himself and Enjolras.

Grantaire let out a mildly hysterical bark of laughter and hit the “buy” button for the second book, getting to his feet to start making his way home when he noticed the time.

His poor heart was going haywire. If what Enjolras had written held true for real life, if this blonde haired, awkward do-gooder superspy was really him, and the sniper was really Grantaire...

He grinned.

He hadn’t even considered that his bizarre crush might have been reciprocated.

 

***

He stayed up way too late finishing the second book, and true to cynicalsn1per1832’s word the train scene at the end was incredibly similar to the piece Grantaire had painted.

Jack’s suspicions had been confirmed, the sniper - whose name was Carlos, which Grantaire found weirdly hilarious simply because it _was_ him, but it _wasn’t_ him - had been set up, it turned out the bad guys were the good guys and the ‒ well, basically it was very complicated and a very good book, okay? And it ended with Jack and Carlos giving the baddies the slip by way of train and false identities, and Jack staring out the window wondering what tomorrow would bring as he kept watch, Carlos taking his turn to sleep slumped against his side.

Enjolras had been very generous in describing Grantaire’s looks - he wasn’t _that_ fit, okay? - and Jack and Carlos were definitely an item, Enjolras had made Jack’s thoughts on him very clear, sharing a few very vivid and detailed kisses throughout the novel with much else besides implied...

Which, needless to say, did nothing to calm Grantaire’s jitters and allow him to sleep, because it just encouraged that part of him that thought maybe there was something between them.

In the morning, it occurred to him that even if Enjolras had stolen bits of their conversations and how they looked, that didn’t necessarily mean he was projecting his own actual feelings into Jack’s character.

But that didn’t put him off enough to make him even consider avoiding him on the train.

He got to the station early, bouncing on the balls of his feet and getting some odd looks from his fellow would-be passengers. He was the first to slip in the train doors before they were even finished opening, and he walked swiftly into the second carriage - that had even been the name of a chapter, _The Second Carriage,_ Christ - and before he could begin to talk himself out of it he dropped into the seat beside Enjolras.

Enjolras jumped, but he didn’t protest, merely raised his eyebrows and gave him that same amused smirk he always wore. “Can I help you?”

Grantaire found himself stuck for words. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to _do_ \- his mouth opened of its own accord.

 _“Carlos?”_ he heard himself ask.

Enjolras paled visibly, eyes darting nervously to his notebook and back. “I - what?”

“Why the hell did you go with Carlos? Of all the cool names in the world, Carlos. Why Carlos?”

Enjolras eyed him cautiously. “You’re… You’re not mad?”

“Of course I’m mad. You named me Carlos,” Grantaire shook his head.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said. “I - you sort of look like a Carlos. And to be fair, I didn’t know your name until I was like, halfway through the second book. I could hardly change his name at random.”

“Aha!” Grantaire pointed at him triumphantly. “So you admit, you’re the author of _Pro Patria Mori_?”

Enjolras grimaced. “I hate that name more every time I hear it, it’s so,” he waved his hand in a vague motion, then sighed. “But, yeah. Under a pen name, of course, but… That’s me.” He smiled weakly and pointed at his notebook. “You’re really not angry?”

“Not angry, no,” Grantaire smiled, initial bravado giving away to nerves. He no longer knew what it was he wanted to say. He knew what his end goal was, but getting there… “What are you doing today?”

“Nothing that can’t be done tomorrow, I suspect,” Enjolras snapped his book shut and dropped it into his bag, turning back to give Grantaire his full attention and only looking slightly suspicious at the rapid change in topic.

Grantaire opened his own bag and pulled out his sketchbook. “You’ve shown me yours, it’s only fair that I show you mine.”

Enjolras looked intrigued, and then… Shy?

“How about over a coffee?” he said, and Grantaire knew he didn’t just imagine the hope in that question.

“Sounds good to me,” he grinned.

***

“I just knew you’d take us to some obscure hidey-hole café,” Grantaire bumped Enjolras’ shoulder playfully as they joined the queue at the counter of said obscure hidey-hole café. "Typical hipster author."

To begin with it had been strange speaking so freely with Enjolras, skipping his normal stop and disembarking with the man, walking with him to his destination instead of merely wondering where it was he went from the train every morning.

But now it just felt… Right.

“Can I…?” Enjolras gestured to the sketchbook, and Grantaire freely handed it over. He’d double-checked before he left the house; there was nothing too suggestive in this one. Those drawings were safely in his desk drawer, miles away, and now he was going to stop thinking about them so that he wouldn’t blush and the subject of said drawings wouldn’t realise anything was amiss.

“Oh my god,” Enjolras breathed. “You’re _him,_ I _knew_ it.”

“What,” is the only reply Grantaire can muster up. That was not the reaction he was expecting.

“I _knew_ those drawings were far too accurate,” Enjolras said, eyes bright with excitement, and-

He’d seen his blog. It was Grantaire’s turn to pale as he desperately tried to remember which drawings he’d elected not to share with his followers and which ones he’d just shrugged and posted with the relevant warnings.

Thankfully, he was rescued by the barista asking for their orders, which he did while staring at them intensely, which was somewhat unnerving. They then took a nearby seat to wait for their drinks, and Grantaire realised that Enjolras was watching him closely, one hand idly tracing patterns on the cover of the sketchbook.

“So where do you keep the other ones?” Enjolras smirked.

Grantaire swallowed, his cheeks heating. “I swear, I didn’t‒”

“No, no excuses,” Enjolras grinned. “Believe me, I don’t want to hear them.” He put his chin in his hands and leaned slightly closer over the top of the table. “But I am curious.”

“About what?” Grantaire asked.

“About-” whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the barista delivering their drinks and leaving with a muffled giggle.

Grantaire pulled his drink towards himself - and groaned.

“Of all the godforsaken names,” he lamented, glaring at the scrawled handwriting that clearly read _‘CARLOS’._

“He’s read my books,” Enjolras said, voice going up several octaves in delight. “And he has no idea that this-” he points at the _‘JACK’_ on his cup. “-is a character I created.”

Grantaire felt the grin spreading slowly across his face. “Okay, no, that is really cool. Plus, goes to show just how well you described us, really.”

“Right?” Enjolras laughed, fingers tracing the letters.

In all honesty, he would have agreed with anything Enjolras said just to hear that laugh again.

***

Soon after, they tired of the watchful gaze of the barista and abandoned the café in order to wander aimlessly, talking about whatever came to mind whenever they fancied.

Grantaire found himself learning a lot about Enjolras. He wrote for a small LGBTQIA+ centric publishing company, alongside a fair few of his friends. Everybody in the company had several jobs, he said. His friend Courfeyrac, for example, held a position high up in management as well as handling social media and advertising. Enjolras himself was involved in editing and proofreading for other writers in the company as well as his own authorial duties.

He also learnt of Enjolras' involvement in political activism, hearing of some of the shenanigans he and his friends got up to in their equal rights campaigning. Grantaire could admire the sentiment, though he didn’t know if he was convinced much could be done with words alone. He expressed this as gently as he could for the time being, and was met merely by raised eyebrows and a vaguely ominous “Challenge accepted”.

He decided he liked Enjolras’ friends when he heard about the one called Bahorel decking somebody whilst dressed as Cinderella. This was a guy Grantaire needed to meet.

Happening upon a park resulted in a race to a swingset that Enjolras admitted was potentially the first time he’d exercised since high school. Grantaire told him he appreciated his honesty as he sprawled in a heap on the ground, gasping for air and watching Enjolras swinging idly in his hard-won seat.

It was a beautiful day, one of those days that wasn’t sure if it was spring or summer, not too warm and not too cool, sun present but not blinding, skies clear and light. Grantaire watched the sunlight filter through tree leaves overhead, making Enjolras’ freckles appear even more dappled than usual.

Enjolras gave him a puzzled smile when he caught his eye. “What?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire started to say, then thought hey, why not? “You’re lovely.”

“Charmer,” Enjolras retorted, but he blushed prettily nonetheless.

Grantaire grinned.

Amongst it all, he told Enjolras a good deal about himself in return. Nothing that seemed too significant to him, but Enjolras followed every word with genuine interest. He was just one of those people who loved information, loved knowing other people, loved people on the whole.

He laughed a lot, too. Laughed when he mentioned he’d named his first cat “Cat”, laughed harder when he revealed his second cat was “Dog”, laughed when Grantaire told him about the hideous bowlcut he’d had when he was twelve. Even when he wasn’t laughing, he seemed to exude contentment.

Grantaire wondered if he was always like this.

They ended up resting on a gentle slope, lying on their backs propped up on their elbows, just watching people go by and talking. Talking, talking, sitting in comfortable silence, talking. The hours slipped by remarkably fast, for time spent doing nothing. And then Enjolras sighed.

“You know, I’m not sure how to feel,” Enjolras said, avoiding Grantaire’s eyes. “I had you all built up in my head as this person, turned you into ‘Carlos’, convinced myself I really liked you even though I had no idea who you were. All of which, by the way, was really quite creepy of me, and I’m really sorry about that.” He paused, frowning. “But now I know you a little and I’ve discovered I was wrong on so many counts, and yet… I like you even more than the person I’d fabricated from the stranger on the train. Does that make sense?”

“It really does,” Grantaire felt that warmth blossom in his chest once more, and smiled. “And no need to apologise, if anything I’m sorry about the drawings. They _really_ crossed the creepy line.”

“We’re both a little creepy,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire turned to look at him as he spoke, voice tentative. “Seems we’re a good match, all things considered.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire asked. The sun’s light began to wane, casting a warm glow over Enjolras’ face, mere inches away from his own. “I guess we should do something about that.”

“Mm,” Enjolras’ eyes darted to Grantaire’s lips, and that was all the invitation he needed.

He leaned forward, Enjolras meeting him in the middle. The kiss was brief and soft, just a gentle press of the lips and then apart again, but that didn’t stop Enjolras’ blush or Grantaire’s giddy grin.

“We should really head for the station,” Enjolras sighed, not making any effort to move or avert his eyes from Grantaire’s.

“Not until I get your number,” Grantaire said, fishing out his phone. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against seeing you in person, but there’s only so much you can do without telecommunication nowadays.”

Enjolras laughed, again, took Grantaire’s phone and plugged in his number. Passing it over his fingers lingered over Grantaire’s more than was strictly necessary.

“Right, shall we?” Grantaire got to his feet and offered Enjolras a hand. He took it, and Grantaire pulled him to his feet.

Neither of them saw fit to let go as they headed for their train.

***

Once again in their carriage, it began to hit Grantaire just how much had changed in a day.

He leaned against Enjolras’ shoulder, fingers still entwined. In turn, Enjolras rested his cheek against Grantaire’s hair, occasionally pressing a kiss to his head. Grantaire wasn’t sure either of them had stopped smiling yet.

He realised they were nearing his stop with a pang of regret, and roused himself.

When he sat up, Enjolras was watching him with a wistful expression.

“You know,” Grantaire started, hopefully. “You could get off at my stop.”

Enjolras’ eyes flashed as he genuinely considered the offer, then made a frustrated noise and shook his head. “Can’t,” he said with regret. “Courfeyrac lost his keys, I have to be there to let him into the flat…” he trailed off, bit his lip. “Are you free tomorrow?”

“For you?” Grantaire grinned. “Definitely.”

When he rose to disembark, Enjolras got to his feet too.

“Call me,” he whispered, then leaned in close.

 

It was a Friday when Grantaire kissed Enjolras goodbye for the first time.

He stepped off of the train with a grin firmly settled on his face.

He couldn’t wait for the weekend.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, the author you have reached does not know what "plots" and "consistency" are. Please try again.  
> No, but seriously. Any writers out there reading about Enjolras' remarkably speedy book-creating skillz, feel free to roll your eyes, I'm so aware that Things Do Not Work Like That.  
> Faults on my part aside, I really missed writing these dorks.
> 
> I'm [cityelf](http://cityelf.tumblr.com), come say hey.
> 
> A/N: 'Pro Patria Mori' literally translates as 'To Die For' (though probably not in the context I'm using it), which does sound like the name of some naff spy novel. I nicked it from a really harrowing poem called Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen. That's not really relevant to the plot, but I thought I should probably, you know, give credit where it's due.


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